Reza
Normal doesn’t arrive all at once.
It settles into small, unremarkable moments. The kind you don’t recognize as important until they’re gone.
By the third week of Brianna’s school routine, I stop counting days.
That’s how I know something has changed.
Mornings begin the same way now. A knock on Sheila’s door, always at the same time. The guard is waiting on the step, posture neutral, presence steady. Brianna already dressed, backpack half-zipped, shoes on the wrong feet more often than not.
We leave together.
No meeting points. No handoffs.
Just motion.
The drive to pack school is quiet but not tense. The guard drives. I sit beside Brianna in the back seat, sometimes quizzing her on spelling, sometimes listening while she narrates dreams or retells yesterday’s lessons with ex
